Consequences of Common Civility
by Delancey654
Summary: Hogwarts, Sixth Year. Hermione Granger is assigned to tutor Draco Malfoy in Arithmancy. When the two enemies manage to find common ground, the consequences are far-reaching enough to alter the outcome of the Second Wizarding War.
1. Chapter 1: September 1996

Draco Malfoy glanced stealthily at his wristwatch. Only two more minutes of Arithmancy and then he could spend several uninterrupted hours until dinner in the Room of Requirement. Professor Vector announced their homework assignment - twelve inches of parchment summarizing the next two chapters of _The New Theory of Numerology_ - and he wrote it down in a desultory fashion. When the bell rang, he hastily gathered his things and made for the classroom door.

"Just a moment, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Vector called out. He was fairly certain this was about the Dreadful he had received on his last quiz, but he couldn't be arsed to care about something as unimportant as his grades when his mother's life hinged on fixing a possibly unrepairable Vanishing Cabinet. Peeves the Poltergeist had smashed the cabinet's delicate operating mechanism well and proper. Only a few weeks into the school year, Draco knew it was beyond his current capabilities to restore the cabinet to working order.

As a back-up plan, Draco had purchased a cursed opal necklace from Borgin and Burkes. That, however, was another long-shot plan. He had no idea how to get the necklace from its hiding place in Goyle's trunk to around the headmaster's neck. Even if could manage that feat, there was no guarantee that a necklace that had killed nineteen Muggles would have the same fatal effect on a powerful wizard like Dumbledore.

He cursed under his breath as he realized Granger had stayed behind, too. Draco had done his best to avoid her this school year and had largely succeeded. She, unlike Potty and the Weasel, never went looking for trouble. Even now, she was studiously ignoring the glares and sneers he directed at her behind Professor Vector's back as he willed her to leave the classroom. Although he had more important things to worry about, like preventing a gigantic snake from eating his mother, he still preferred not to be humiliated in front of any girl, most of all the Gryffindor know-it-all.

Professor Vector evidently gave a toss for his preferences, or Granger's for that matter, as she announced that the bushy-haired swot would be tutoring him in Arithmancy until his marks returned to an acceptable level. Draco had previously rather liked the fact that Professor Vector, a Beauxbatons alumna, was indifferent to Hogwarts house rivalries and more likely to give the Slytherins a fair shake. Now he realized that she was a delusional cow.

"But Professor . . . " the Mudblood launched into an impassioned list of the reasons why Ravenclaw Kevin Entwhistle would be a better choice, even if his class rank was second to hers. For the first time in his life, Draco found himself wholeheartedly in agreement with Hermione Granger. However, her shrill protests eventually subsided once Professor Vector expressed disappointment that a prefect and aspiring Head Girl would be so unwilling to aid a fellow student.

By that time, Draco had a dull headache and had wasted almost an hour that should have been spent in the Room of Requirement, so he abruptly agreed to twice-weekly tutoring sessions and left the classroom. Granger followed in his wake, trying to schedule their first meeting. Once around a concealing corner, he grabbed her upper arms and pushed her against the tapestry-covered wall, causing a herd of embroidered unicorns to stampede. "Shut it, you stupid bint," he snarled at her, taking out his frustration on the nearest target. "We won't be meeting Thursday after dinner or any other time. I'll get Snape to sort this out."

With that, he released her abruptly and stalked away, confident that Granger was too much of a good girl to jinx him in the back, even if he richly deserved it.

( ) ( ) ( )

Professor Snape allowed him to vent for precisely three minutes, dark eyes flickering between Draco's angrily flushed face and the miniature hourglass on his desk, before holding up his hand for silence.

Draco broke off immediately. After the first few cold, clipped syllables, it was very clear that he was being addressed by the stern Head of Slytherin House and not the (comparatively) indulgent godfather.

"There has been talk in the staff room about your failing marks, Draco. Some teachers, like Septima, are concerned that Lucius's incarceration is taking a toll, and wish to assist you. You cannot afford to alienate those professors, when others at this school are eager to see you expelled."

"Notwithstanding your current academic performance, which would shame even Longbottom, you are intelligent enough to perceive that the consequences, should you be forced to leave Hogwarts prematurely, would be severe." The professor paused to give his godson a very significant look before continuing. "You shall accept any assistance that is offered with at least an appearance of gratitude. Do you understand?"

With Professor Snape's eyes boring into him, Draco had no choice but to nod in assent. When his teacher's expression softened slightly, he took his chances. "Sir, I appreciate that Professor Vector has arranged for tutoring," which was unusual, since she was typically the "sink or swim" sort, "but does it have to be with the Mudblood?"

Professor Snape regarded him with cold amusement, which was more chilling than anger. "Don't whinge, Draco. That is not conduct befitting a Malfoy. As for Miss Granger, you would be well-advised to treat her with civility similar to what you afford to an intelligent half-blood, like Miss Li or Miss Davis."

Draco's eyes widened slightly in shock. The professor's instruction to treat a Mudblood with anything other than violent contempt was heresy. Even worse, he had named the only two witches at Hogwarts of less than pure blood Draco had shagged. (That had to be a sick coincidence. Draco had been discreet; it was impossible that Snape knew.)

He opened his mouth to protest, but the potions professor cut him off with an impatient gesture. "Minerva McGonagall has been active in lobbying for your expulsion. It would be unwise to give her ammunition by mistreating or insulting her Muggle-born pet. Any true Slytherin would understand your need to dissemble in these circumstances."

Draco closed his mouth with a snap and nodded curtly. Professor Snape's logic was unassailable. He had also just provided reassurance, with the subtlety that characterized their House, that he would defend Draco's behavior to any of their fellow Death Eaters or even the Dark Lord himself.

After a few minutes of potions-related conversation, Draco took his leave, intent on getting in at least a few hours of work with the Vanishing Cabinet. And on his way to the seventh floor, he would detour to the Owlery and arrange for delivery of a civil note to Granger, indicating that a tutoring session the following evening would be acceptable after all.

Professor Snape had watched Draco's departure with an inscrutable expression. Nothing in his expression betrayed his belief that Dumbledore's scheme to save Draco was even more desperate and dangerous than the Unbreakable Vow that Narcissa had begged him to undertake.

( ) ( ) ( )

The following morning, breakfast at the Gryffindor table was interrupted by the swooping arrival of an eagle owl landing deliberately on Ron Weasley's plate.

"Oi, bugger off!" The lanky redhead yelled at the magnificent bird. The owl gave him a baleful look and snapped his beak threateningly before extending the parchment scroll grasped in one of his talons to the curly-haired witch in the next seat over.

She took the scroll and offered a piece of crisp bacon in exchange, ignoring Ron's warning. "Careful, Hermione! That's Malfoy's owl. He's probably trained it to bite Muggleborns."

Purus took the treat carefully, not even grazing the girl's fingers, and ruffled his feathers in affront at the red-haired boy. His master had been explicit in his instructions, forbidding him to bite or scratch the Mudblood or anyone at her table.

The young witch untied the silver ribbon around the scroll, unrolled the parchment, and read the brief message. She then looked over at the Slytherin table and nodded, unsmiling. With a swivel of his head, the owl saw his master briefly dip his platinum-bright head in acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Sir Owl. I won't need to send a written response. Another piece before you go?" The owl gently accepted the bacon, hoping there would be future deliveries to this polite, generous witch, notwithstanding her unfortunate blood status.

"Hermione, stop feeding the sodding bird! The mangy thing could take your finger off." It was the annoying boy with red hair again. Clearly a Weasley, and, like any proper familiar, Purus knew his master's views on that family of blood traitors.

The owl blinked his orange eyes thoughtfully, considering the strictures placed upon him. After a few moments of concentration, he deposited a pellet and flew off with a mocking hoot.

"Bloody owl," Ron muttered as he eyed the partially-digested mouse remains in the middle of his scrambled eggs with utter disgust as the rest of the table laughed.

"Can I see that?" Harry Potter reached a hand across the table and snagged the letter before Hermione could reply.

"Harry, it's rude to read other people's mail!" He read it quickly, ignoring her protests.

_Granger - After reconsideration, I have decided it would be advisable to accept Professor Vector's offer, on your behalf, of tutoring in Arithmancy. I am available on Thursday evenings and Sunday mornings at the times you proposed. May I suggest that we meet tomorrow evening outside the library? No response is necessary if you agree._

Harry looked across the table, concern evident in his bright green eyes. "Hermione, I don't think you should meet with Malfoy. He's a D-"

She cut him off. "Honestly, Harry! He's just a spoiled prat who likes to brag."

"He's a nasty, ferret-faced git," Ron chimed in, "and that's more than enough reason to tell him to shove off and find a snake to study with."

Hermione was scandalized. "Ron! We are _prefects_. It's our job to help students from any house, even the Slytherins."

Ron snorted at that.

Harry still looked worried. "Maybe Ron or I should come with you."

Now it was Ron's turn to be scandalized. "Harry, you've booked the Quidditch pitch tomorrow. We can't miss practice for the Ferret!"

"Really, Harry," Hermione objected, "I don't need you or Ron there distracting me as I'm trying to drill Arithmancy concepts into Malfoy's blond head."

"Fine," Harry acquiesced. "Just promise me you'll be careful, 'Mione."

"I will, Harry. I promise," she said, rolling her eyes. "But honestly, what's the worst Malfoy could do?"


	2. Chapter 2: October 1996

**A/N: My thanks to accio-logic, Daniann8, Colubrina, latina-pr and SusanMarieS for the oh-so-nice reviews on the initial chapter. I recognize a few of your names as reviewers of my other story in-progress. This story, if you're curious, is my "writer's block" story, which I work on whenever I get to a sticky point with Better Off Forgotten. My plan is to update this once a month. So here is October's update - Happy Halloween!**

**_October 1996_**

A few weeks in, Draco was finding his meetings with Granger to be . . . worthwhile.

Before he started at Hogwarts, his parents had employed a litany of the best tutors that money could buy. Granger, despite her blood status, was better. With her assistance, he already had dragged his Arithmancy grade up to a low pass. More importantly, some of the concepts she was helping him with were applicable to the repair of the Vanishing Cabinet. Perhaps that was why Snape had been so insistent on Draco accepting her as a tutor.

Surprisingly, he also was finding it rather easy to obey Professor Snape's secondary order to treat Granger with civility. Really, it was nothing more than excising a single word from his vocabulary. Granger, no doubt as a result of years spent in the noxious presence of Scarhead and the Weasel, had a high tolerance for git-like behavior and was impressed by a display of even the most basic manners.

It helped that she was easy on the eyes and compared favorably to his former tutors in that she smelt of cinnamon rather than stale tobacco or pungent potions ingredients. In past years, he would have made a nasty comment and a great show of cleaning his robes if Granger accidentally brushed against him; now, Draco rather enjoyed those little touches. He also appreciated that Granger was always prompt and well-prepared for their sessions - although her track record was going to be marred if she didn't arrive in the next two minutes.

As he waited, tapping one expensive dragon leather shoe in impatience, he smiled darkly at the irony of the poster girl for Mudbloods unwittingly assisting him in his mission for the Dark Lord.

Just then, Granger pushed open the door, levitating a covered tray in her wake. She was slightly and appealingly flushed from hurrying up multiple flights of stairs from the Great Hall to the unused fourth-floor classroom they had agreed upon for their meetings, having attracted far too much attention when they attempted to study in the library.

He greeted her with a nod and briefly stood up. "Granger."

"Malfoy." After a small pause, she added, "I noticed you weren't at dinner, so I brought you some food."

He raised an eyebrow at her unexpected thoughtfulness. "Dare I ask what Potty and his Weasel did to taint it?"

"Nothing whatsoever," she answered crisply, lowering the tray to his desktop with a flick of her wand. Granger smiled at his skeptical expression. "I waited until they left for Quidditch practice before making up your plate."

"Ah, yes. Captain Potter must be working the Weasel King extra hard to get him ready for Saturday's match," Draco spoke dismissively, causing her smile to disappear.

She thought his tone was a slight directed at her friends. In reality, Draco was finding it hard to care about the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch rivalry. Just last weekend, he had used an Unforgivable for the first time - coincidentally, on one of their Chasers - and nearly caused her to be killed. It had been a crude and desperate attempt to deliver the cursed opal necklace to Dumbledore. Predictably, it had failed.

The Dark Lord was not pleased at his lack of progress. Draco had barely slept all week, due to his master sending him recurring nightmares of his mother being brutalized and murdered as a consequence of failing his mission. Last night's had featured Narcissa's violated and lifeless body hanging from the crystal chandelier in the drawing room, with her face purple and tongue protruding.

Granger misconstrued his shudder and glared at him. "I didn't contaminate the food with my Mudblood germs."

"I didn't say you had," he answered coolly, using a wandless _Accio_ to draw the tray towards him.

As a matter of form, he scanned the food with his wand, finding nothing more than a perfectly-executed warming charm on the beef bourguignon, asparagus, and escalloped potatoes, with an equally meticulous cooling charm preserving the chocolate mousse.

He looked up at the witch. still standing in front of his desk, and gave her a half-smile. "Thanks, Granger. How'd you know to pick my favorites? You're not harboring a secret crush on me, are you?"

"Hardly, Malfoy," she rolled her eyes at him. "I simply picked what Ron dislikes."

"Probably because he can't pronounce it," Draco smirked at his own cleverness as he picked up the knife and fork.

As usual, Granger ignored his aspersions towards the ginger Weasel. "May I take a look at your homework while you eat?"

He swallowed a mouthful of tender beef before replying. "Please. I know I got the last two wrong." Draco passed the sheet of parchment to Granger, puzzled at the sudden reappearance of her smile.

He continued to eat quickly but neatly as she reviewed his answers to the ten problems Professor Vector had assigned, making the occasional notation or tick mark with her odd Muggle pencil. As soon as he'd finished the last bite of dessert, he set aside the plates and cutlery for a house elf to collect and gave Granger his full attention.

"What does Wenlock's fourth theorem tell us about the calculation of distance between two magical objects?" she asked him. Granger would never just give him the answer, but always made him work to figure it out. Draco suppressed an irritated sigh as he opened his textbook to the relevant chapter, wondering if she took the same maddening approach with the Weasel, or simply gave him the right answers out of impatience with the gangly ginger's stupidity.

Ninety minutes later, Draco gathered up his corrected homework and several pages of notes on the fourth theorem. He would review those in more detail later in the Room of Requirement and use them to re-run his preliminary calculations for the cabinet once he managed to sneak back up from the dungeons.

Sudden inspiration struck as Granger wished him a good night on her way out the door. "Granger, wait. I'll walk you back to your dorm."

That would give him an excellent reason for being on the seventh floor, in close proximity to the Room of Requirement. If he were unlucky enough to be caught by Filch, even a hag as strict as McGonagall might excuse him from detention if she thought he was out of bounds for chivalrous reasons.

Granger gave him a look of mingled surprise and wariness before decisively shaking her head. "Not necessary, Malfoy."

"It is indeed. My mother taught me that a well-bred wizard should always escort his companion to her front door."

His charming smile merely caused Granger to raise her eyebrows. "Yes, Muggles have the same custom, Malfoy, but it applies to dates. Not a study session."

While tempted to point out that wizards were inherently more civilized, he knew Granger would only be annoyed by that observation. He tried another approach. "You shouldn't be wandering around the castle by yourself so late. It might not be safe." Draco looked intently at Granger, his grey eyes soft and clouded with concern. It was a look that never failed to get him what he wanted.

Granger simply rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm a witch, Malfoy, and perfectly capable of defending myself. I'll see you on Sunday, alright?" Without waiting for his reply, she walked towards the classroom door.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the stubborn little bitch's back and hissed, "_Accio_ Granger's wand."

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione's hand was on the door knob when she heard Malfoy summon her wand. She whirled around to see the vine wood slap into his palm; he then quickly tucked it in his pants pocket for safe-keeping.

"What are you playing at? Give me my wand back!" she shrieked, torn between disbelief and anger. A thread of fear joined the mix as Malfoy walked towards her with a completely unreadable expression.

Hermione made a desperate grab for her wand, but Malfoy captured her hand with a smirk. "Careful, Granger. We're not on such intimate terms."

After nearly a month of experiencing Malfoy on his best behavior, Hermione had almost forgotten what a loathsome, evil little cockroach he could be. Not so little, she amended mentally, as she swung at him with her free hand. The last time she had done that, he'd been within an inch or two of her own height; now the top of her head barely reached the pointy chin she was aiming for.

Malfoy grabbed her wrist before she could land a punch and pushed her back against the still-closed door, making sure to angle his lower body Hermione couldn't knee him in the groin.

Her furious brown eyes met his cold grey eyes ones before he bent his head to whisper in her ear, as if sharing a secret. "You are a very capable witch, Granger, but without your wand you're just a vulnerable girl. There are people who would _enjoy_ hurting you." Her breath hitched as pressed his body closer to hers, underscoring the nature of his warning.

Abruptly, he released her and twisted the doorknob, striding out into the corridor. "Come along, Granger. It's almost curfew."

Hermione would have liked nothing more than to refuse, or better yet hex the smug expression off his pointy ferrety face. But without her wand, she really had no choice but to follow Malfoy.

When she caught up with him, she held out her hand imperiously. "I'd like my wand back."

Either Ron or Harry would have obeyed instantly when she used that tone of voice. Malfoy just flicked an amused glance over his shoulder. "Why? So you can turn me into an amazing bouncing ferret once again? I'll give it back once we're at the entrance to the Gryffindor tower."

"I'd like to be to defend myself if we're attacked on the way, since Hogwarts is so dangerous at night."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Granger. You're safe enough with me."

Oddly enough, she believed him.

(x) (x) (x)

Granger hadn't said a word since he had refused to return her wand outside the fourth floor classroom. Based on his past experience with Pansy and the Greengrass sisters, Draco was expecting the silent treatment to continue for at least the next few days, but apparently Gryffindor girls were different. Granger broke her silence as they reached the seventh floor.

"Who wants to hurt me, Malfoy?"

In a classic display of Gryffindor bravado, her tone was almost nonchalant, even though he had felt her shaking when he held her pinned against the door. Looking at her appraisingly, he decided there was no harm in putting her on guard. If nothing else, he owed the Mudblood for her help with Arithmancy, and Malfoys always paid their debts.

"Crabbe has been entertaining disgusting fantasies about you for years and wouldn't hesitate to act on them if he caught you alone and without your wand." Granger looked revolted at the thought. "And watch out for Nott. He's a dark one, even more so since his father was arrested at the Department of Mysteries."

She opened her mouth and quickly shut it, obviously biting back a question. Draco would have wagered one of his smaller Gringott's vaults that it had something to do with his father, also rotting in Azkaban. Her unexpected tact deserved an additional warning.

"It's not just school boys who like to play in the mud, Granger. My uncle - " Draco broke off with a snap. Rodolphus still was a wanted fugitive, at least nominally. He wasn't about to incriminate himself. Granger was certainly clever enough to connect the dots.

After that, they walked through the castle in silence until they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, where Granger thanked him in a barely audible voice as the entrance swung open.

For once, Draco decided to play nice. "Don't forget this, Granger," he said, holding up her wand. She stepped towards him, palm outstretched. He placed the length of vine wood in her hand and closed her fingers around it, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "Stay safe 'til Sunday, Granger."


	3. Chapter 3: November 1996

**A/N: thank you to those who are reading, reviewing and following this little story, especially latina-pr, ordinary vamp, hellokittyaniya, Colubrina, Princess of Mirkwood2, and Grovek26. The kind words are always appreciated! Here is this month's installment. **

**_November 1996_**

Draco tickled the painted bowl of pears, debating what he should do.

For seven Sunday mornings running, he had made a quick detour to the kitchens on his way up from the dungeons to obtain a breakfast pastry or three from the house elves, which he'd devoured with the healthy appetite of a teenaged boy on his walk up to the fourth floor for a tutoring session with Granger.

While he would never be so rude as to eat food in front of her without having brought any to share (his mother would condemn such shocking discourtesy, even to a Mudblood), Draco had taken a certain sly satisfaction in watching Granger subsist on some foil-wrapped Muggle item that looked like a small rectangle of particle board while his stomach was pleasantly full with freshly-baked goodness.

Now, the silly Mudblood had gone and changed the equation by bringing him dinner, and more than once. It would only be polite to reciprocate; however, that also implied a type of caring that made Draco acutely uncomfortable. It was one thing to take a Slytherin witch to Madame Puddifoot's as a _quid pro quo_; it was quite another to bring Granger a meal because it was a nice thing to do and because she had done the same for him.

Before Draco could reach a decision, a house-elf stuck its ugly snout outside the portrait. "Can Wobbly help you, sir?" At least it wasn't the sock-wearing freak his father had abused for years.

Draco scowled. Then, inspiration struck. He would not specifically request anything on Granger's behalf, but he would couch his request to ensure there was more than enough to share. That was serpentine reasoning at its finest.

"I'm meeting another student for a study session. Would it be possible to get some food to tide me over until the dining hall opens?"

The creature beamed at him. "Wobbly is happy to help such diligent students! Would sir and his friend be wanting a hot breakfast?"

Draco winced but didn't bother to correct the elf's inaccurate description of his relationship with Granger. "Continental is fine."

"Coming right up!" The elf snapped its bony green fingers and, within minutes, Draco was on his way with a well-stocked basket of pastries, butter, and two types of preserves, as well as untippable pots of coffee and tea with sugar, lemon slices, and jugs of milk and cream. Despite himself, he couldn't hold back a tiny grin at the thought of Granger looking up at him with soft honey-brown eyes and smiling warmly at his thoughtfulness.

(x) (x) (x)

When her wand buzzed, Hermione wanted nothing more than to bury her head under the pillow and go back to sleep. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her eyes were even worse, and now that she was awake, Ron's "celebration" of the Gryffindor Quidditch victory with Lavender Brown kept replaying in her head with vicious clarity.

A soft sound from the girl's bed caught Hermione's attention. It was a feminine snore - neither Lavender or Ron was clever enough to work around the charm that protected the girls' dormitories from male visitors - but Hermione knew it was only a matter of time until her roommate would be shagging Ron somewhere else in the castle.

For a moment, Hermione was tempted to hex Lavender bald or curse her with a case of acne that would make Marietta Edgecombe's look like a couple of zits. A spiteful cow like Pansy Parkinson wouldn't have hesitated to lift her wand, but Hermione's overly developed sense of fair play asserted itself.

Thinking about the Slytherin witch reminded Hermione that her wand had woken her on a Sunday while it was still dark because she had an early morning appointment with Pansy's better half. Or worse half? No, this year at least Malfoy was definitely the former. Parkinson still had her pug-like nose in the air and never failed to make a nasty comment whenever Hermione was unfortunate enough to be in her general vicinity, while Malfoy had been generally subdued, even occasionally bordering on civil.

With a sigh, she grabbed her wand from the nightstand and padded off to the bathroom. As much as she wanted to skive off this morning, there wasn't enough time to send an owl to the dungeons and it would be terribly inconsiderate to leave Malfoy waiting.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco suppressed a sigh of irritation as Granger sniffled for the fifth time in less than fifteen minutes. The girl was a mess, with red-rimmed eyes and even more outrageous hair than usual.

To his extreme annoyance, after all of his internal debate and efforts to bring her breakfast, her only reaction had been a muttered thanks. The ungrateful witch had barely sipped at her tea and had taken just a single scone, at his urging, only to crumble it rather than eating it.

He flipped the pages of his Arithmancy textbook viciously, nearly tearing the parchment. If she had been ill, he would have cancelled their meeting and sent her back to her room to sleep. But Granger insisted she was fine.

If she had a meritorious reason to be upset - say, if her familiar had passed through the Veil - Draco would not have been averse to comforting her. Truth be told, a concept with which he was at least passingly familiar, he would have liked an excuse to place an arm around her shoulders and stroke her hair, to see if it was as soft and fluffy as it looked. But he had seen Granger's ugly orange feline just this morning, strutting around near the dungeons as though he owned them.

In fact, Draco had strong suspicions as to why she was in such a state, and was less than pleased. Pansy had burst into the Slytherin common room late last night, Urquhart in hand, to loudly announce that the Weasel King and Lavender Brown were monopolizing the Astronomy Tower. Pansy had been torn between glee at being the first to relay malicious gossip about one of the Golden Trio and annoyance at having to remove her amorous activities to the Seventh Year boys' unkept dormitory.

Frankly, Draco had thought better of Granger, that she wasn't one to cry over any boy, let alone the ginger pauper. Certainly he had never been able to elicit that reaction from her.

The sixth sniffle snapped his wafer-thin patience. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it at her. A direct demand that she tell him what was wrong would be futile, but he hadn't been sorted into Slytherin solely on the basis of family connections.

Granger took the offered handkerchief with a watery smile. "Thanks, Malfoy."

He waved off her thanks and looked intently and sympathetically into her eyes, close enough that he could count each long eyelash. "Did something happen to your parents?"

Granger literally blanched. "Wh-what?" she stuttered, brown eyes wide in alarm. "No, I haven't heard that anything happened to them." Then her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Why would you ask that?"

"We live in dangerous times, Granger. I know you read the _Daily Prophet_. You don't need me to tell you that your parents might be targeted."

Draco held out his hands, conveying without words that he was not seeking a confrontation. And truly, he was not really looking for a fight - just a subtle bit of mental needling to help Granger realize the ultimate unimportance of the redheaded loser she was mooning over.

Her shoulders slumped. "I know. I'm trying to protect them with blood wards, but - " She stopped abruptly, recollecting to whom she was speaking.

Malfoy regarded her with speculation. Granger had turned seventeen after the term had begun - he had witnessed the raucous celebration at the Gryffindor table back in September with a sneer on his face - which meant she had somehow circumvented the trace on underage magic, probably by using someone else's wand. Interesting to know that the Gryffindor princess wasn't as much of a stickler for the rules as he had assumed.

"Blood wards are the strongest," he observed mildly. "Particularly if you have layered wards from multiple generations." Malfoy Manor had perhaps the most formidable protections of any private residence in wizarding Britain for precisely that reason, not that those wards would do a damn bit of good now that his father had invited the Dark Lord to move in.

"I _know_, Malfoy. But it's still not good enough," she told him, evidently frustrated.

"Why don't you send your parents away?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"They won't go. They love their home, and they've spent years building their dental practice, and - " Granger was growing increasingly agitated as she spoke.

Draco interrupted, incredulous. "Are you mental? You're a witch - _make_ them go."

"Are you serious? They would never forgive me."

"I am deadly serious, Granger. I would do it in a heartbeat for my - if I were in your shoes," he finished, rather lamely.

From the startled and then thoughtful look that flitted across Granger's face, the witch had noted his slip. "Duly noted," she said quietly, with unexpected subtlety.

Misdirection was in order. "So, if not your parents, what has your knickers in a twist? It's obvious you've been crying. Your eyes are as red as your Gryffindor jumper."

Granger self-consciously smoothed the sleeve of the hand-knit sweater. "I have allergies, Malfoy."

He hummed, skeptically. "You were fine Friday afternoon in DADA - you nearly hexed Nott's nose off, and he's quick with his wand. So you expect me to believe that something you're allergic to came into bloom over the weekend, in the Scottish highlands, in November?"

"Something like that," Granger muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Now Draco was enjoying himself. He propped his feet up on the desk, wholly relaxed. "Hmmm, perhaps _lavandula augustifolia_? Common English lavender?"

"Common being the operative word," Granger snarked.

Draco smiled at the show of claws. "I can't say I disagree. Did the Brown bint hook up with Potty or the Weasel? Or perhaps both at the same time?"

Granger looked at him with shocked brown eyes. "Both? That's disgusting, Malfoy! Harry and Ron would never do that." She wrinkled her nose at the thought, and Draco had to admit it was rather cute.

"Ah, the charming innocence of Gryffindors. Other than Miss Brown, of course." Draco linked his hands behind his head and smirked at Granger, who predictably rose to the bait.

"Did you and Lavender ever, um - "

"Fuck? Shag?" Making Granger blush was certainly much more fun than studying Arithmancy. Draco dropped his feet back to the floor and leaned forward with his hands on his knees, grey eyes bright with malicious mischief. "Tell me which of the Dubious Duo was swapping spit with the Brown slag and I'll see if I can't satisfy your rampant curiously."

Granger hesitated for a moment and then answered, realizing she wasn't giving anything away. Ron and Lavender hadn't been discreet and the rumors would be all around the castle before the weekend was over. "Ron. Lavender was snogging Ron."

Draco nodded once, decisively. "She's perfect for the Weasel King. Shoddy quality and used goods, just what he's used to."

Granger snorted with laughter before automatically reprimanding him. "That's cruel, Malfoy."

He grinned, utterly unrepentant. "But undeniably true. Oh, and the answer to your question - whether I shagged the bint - is absolutely not. Unlike Weasley, I actually have standards."

She shook her head at him, but couldn't suppress a grin.

"Have a scone, Granger - don't let the elf labor go to waste." Draco held out the basket invitingly and she obligingly took one.

He congratulated himself on the success of his unorthodox methods of cheering her up. She hadn't sniffled once during their conversation and was looking much less dejected.

"Thanks, Malfoy. This is really good." Now she was giving him that grateful look he wanted, with her brown eyes glowing and her rosy lips curved in a smile, and the way that made him feel was even better than he had anticipated.

After a few more bites, Granger dabbed delicately at her mouth with one of the napkins. Draco tracked the movement and found himself leaning forward, unable to tear his eyes away from her slightly parted lips.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" she asked, puzzled. He was absolutely transfixed by the subtle way her lips moved as she spoke.

Rather than answering in words, he moved even closer, until their noses were nearly touching and he could feel faint puffs against his skin as she breathed. Almost delicately, Draco cupped his hand behind her neck and pulled her forward until their lips touched, in a soft, sweet first kiss.

(x) (x) (x)

Malfoy had been acting odd all morning, so Hermione initially thought nothing of it when he started staring at her mouth. Self-consciously, she patted a napkin against her lips to remove whatever crumb had captured his attention.

It had been a pleasant surprise when he had shown up with a basket from the kitchen, with more than enough to share. Hermione wasn't really hungry, but she took a cup of tea and scone to be polite. Harry would have been aghast, convinced that Malfoy had poisoned either her food or drink, but she was frankly sick of his Death Eater paranoia.

Harry was not exactly in her good books at present, with his unwavering loyalty to Ron - the boys always seemed to stick together and leave her as the odd one out - and his inarticulate stammering in lieu of any words of comfort. "Er-" simply didn't cut it as a response to Ron's betrayal of snogging Lavender in front of the whole of Gryffindor house mere days after he had agreed to go as _her _date to the Slug Club Christmas party.

Malfoy, for all of his undeniable shortcomings as a human being, had succeeded in making her feel better where Harry had failed. Honestly, Hermione found Malfoy's biting sense of humor to be rather clever and amusing - particularly when directed at someone else.

His advice about her parents also provided food for thought. She wouldn't _Imperio_ them - for one thing, it wouldn't work unless she remained in close proximity - but perhaps there was some lesser compulsion charm she could use to get them out of England. She would have to do some more research, now that Malfoy had ever so subtly confirmed her fear that her parents were targets.

Just now, though, it seemed like he was back to being his usual git-like self, leaning forward and examining her mouth like there was a cold sore forming.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" Her question came out soft, almost breathless, rather than tart as she intended.

He ignored her question and leaned forward even further, close enough that she could see that his pupils were dilated and his eyes were not a uniform, flat grey, but rather were a mosaic of colors ranging from silver to slate. She caught a faint whiff of something lemony and realized it was Malfoy's undoubtedly expensive and hand-milled French soap.

Soap, not cologne, her brain automatically processed. Ron had taken to wearing a woodsy cologne this past summer - that had been the third thing she had smelled in Professor Slughorn's Amorentia at the start of term, damn her teenage hormones and pheromones - and she could readily distinguish between the light soap scent and the heavier, more processed smell of a cologne. And even if it was early in the morning, and even if Malfoy was freshly showered, the logical part of Hermione's mind knew that he still shouldn't be close enough that she could pick up on that subtle lemon verbena scent.

Hermione was intending to again ask Malfoy what he was doing, but then his fingers were curled around the back of her neck, with his pinky brushing the sensitive nape, and she didn't have to be the so-called brightest witch of her age to figure it out.

If she had ever thought about kissing Malfoy, and Hermione would swear that had happened only once or twice, when she was close to delirious from studying for her O.W.L. exams, she would have expected him to kiss her like he owned her, as befitted a Malfoy and a Mudblood.

But his kiss was almost tentative, inviting her rather than demanding. Impulsively, Hermione gave the kiss her whole-hearted participation, shifting closer to Malfoy, parting her lips and flicking her tongue against his still-closed mouth, and giving into the temptation of running her fingers through his silky-soft blond hair.

In the back of her mind, she could practically hear Harry screaming for her to stop, and could picture Ron turning an unflattering shade of puce, and that only goaded her to turn the kiss into a full-blown snog. If Ron could eat Lavender's face off in public, Hermione saw no reason why she shouldn't twine her tongue with Slytherin's serpent prince in private. It was a very nice first kiss, or series of kisses, if one were being precise. When she broke it off, slowly pulling away, Hermione more than half-expected Malfoy to ruin it with a snarky comment at her expense.

"What was that, Malfoy?" she asked, then mentally kicked herself for creating an opening for the inevitable insult.

Instead, he looked at her, his grey eyes darker than she had ever seen him, and unconsciously licked his lips. "That, princess, is incontrovertible proof that Malfoys have higher standards and better taste than Weasels."


	4. Chapter 4: December 1996

**A/N: My thanks to Colubrina, Daniann8, amethystfirechik, Yira, shealone, ordinary vamp, Grovek26, Lucys-Corner, FallenCrimsonStar, Dawnaven, Rita593, and AngelOfDarkness505 for your reviews of the last chapter. Reviews are even better than candy canes! Thank you as well to everyone who has added this once-a-month story to their favorites/follows. **

**Be forewarned: while the last chapter was sweet, this one gets a bit spicy and ends on a sour note. **

With a sneer, Draco watched the crowd of Sixth Year students exiting the Charms classroom in the direction of the Great Hall. Professor Flitwick permitted any student who achieved an "Acceptable" O.W.L. to continue with the subject, so it was well-subscribed. Indeed, Draco would go so far as to say it was over-subscribed, populated by the magical dregs.

Longbottom stumbled past, nearly falling flat on his face as he tripped over Draco's highly polished (and outstretched) dragon hide loafer, perfectly illustrating Flitwick's over-inclusiveness. He was followed by exhibits two and three: the Brown bint and Weasel King, with the latter too occupied in sucking his girlfriend's lips off to even offer Draco his usual paltry insult about what it was like to have a gaol bird for a father.

Draco had been among the first out the door, given his usual seat in the back of the classroom flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He'd given them permission to proceed to dinner without him; he had found they grumbled less about standing guard outside the Room of Requirement when their stomaches were full. He had chosen to linger outside the Charms classroom to enjoy the show, to watch Blaise Zabini "work his magic," as the dark-haired boy cockily described it.

According to Blaise, any female between the ages of ten and a hundred was susceptible to his exotic, dark good looks. He boasted that even Professor McGonagall had been persuaded to increase his mark on a Transfiguration exam through judicious application of the Zabini charm, a claim that Draco shudderingly hoped was nothing more than _braggadocio_ run amuck.

Still, that boast had quite naturally lent itself to a friendly Slytherin wager: back in November, Draco had bet Blaise two hundred Galleons that he would be unable to break up Gryffindor's latest golden couple before the Slug Club's Christmas party, now a mere week away. In addition to machismo, Blaise's reasons for taking the bet were straightforward: his mother was currently single and had curtailed her son's allowance as a result, preferring to spend her money on flattering clothing, magical cosmetics, and trips to exotic locales to ensnare husband number eight.

Draco's motive, in contrast, was convoluted enough to make Salazar Slytherin proud. He didn't _really_ want Brown and Weaselbee to break up. If they did, there was a chance - albeit an increasingly slim one - that the ginger would make a successful play for Granger. Rather, Draco wanted to incite the Weasel's jealous temper, to orchestrate any number of scenes where the redhead would publicly assert his claim over his slaggy girlfriend. Because he had noticed that Granger, who was ordinarily a sensible, level-headed girl, would watch those little scenes with no expression on her face and then show up at their tutoring sessions willing to snog him, and more, very much against her better judgement. And since Granger's kisses and caresses were the brightest spots in Draco's increasingly bleak world, he wanted - and perhaps needed - to keep her in a snit with the ginger tosser.

Blaise, after an exchange of knowing smirks with Draco, interrupted the snogging couple with a light tap on Lavender's shoulder. "Hey, Lavie," he greeted the blonde, white teeth flashing, "I was wondering if we could meet up in the library later to work on that Hardening Charm. You seem to have a real knack for it."

Lavender fluttered her eyelashes, giggling at the innuendo. "Oooh, Blaise, I'd love to, but I don't know if I can. I was going to go watch Won-Won's Quidditch practice."

She purposefully thrust out her chest as she spoke to the handsome Slytherin, making her large breasts even more prominent. Draco sneered. As anyone who had observed Weasel in the dining hall could attest, the ginger moron looked for quantity over quality, including in his girlfriend.

"Bugger off, Zabini," the redhead growled, knocking his shoulder into the Slytherin boy. "I keep Lavender too busy for her to have any time to spend with snakes."

Granger, leaving the classroom with Scarhead, briefly surveyed the scene with a neutral look on her face and then walked on, deliberately stepping close enough that her robes brushed against Draco's.

"What are looking at, pet?" he called after her. He'd abandoned "Mudblood" as an insult in September; happily, Granger was equally flustered - but not equally furious - when he publicly addressed her using mock endearments.

"Nothing whatsoever, Ferret," she sniffed, nose in the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watched Granger flounce down the hallway, curls bouncing and her baggy robes failing to disguise the sway of her shapely hips and bottom. Given her temper, and her lovely tendency to work out her anger by snogging him senseless, he could look forward to tangling his hands in her hair and squeezing and cupping that pert arse - sadly, over her uniform skirt or Muggle denims, since Granger had set some very clear boundaries - when they met up later for his tutoring session.

Draco smirked in anticipation. Merlin, at least in some respects, Gryffindors were easy.

"Y'know, I was thinking," Zabini began, as the two Slytherin boys sauntered towards the dining hall in Granger's wake.

"Dangerous occupation, that," Draco observed, eyes still subtly tracking the curly-haired witch ahead of them. "And sufficiently remarkable that you felt the need to share?"

"Shut it, arsehole," his dark friend stated mildly. "I need to ask a witch to Sluggy's Christmas party and the thought crossed my mind that Granger might be into interhouse unity. She has been _tutoring_ you, after all."

The words had barely left his mouth, with just that faint, suggestive intonation, when Draco flung Blaise up against the stone wall. "Stay away from her, unless you fancy having your bits served up to the Giant Squid as a snack," he growled, his wand digging into the other wizard's neck.

Unexpectedly, Blaise laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "Tell me how you _really_ feel about Granger, Malfoy. Or do you call her Hermione now?"

Draco lowered his wand, but only slightly, realizing he had been played by his fellow Slytherin.

"Your secret's safe with me, bro," Blaise reassured him, dark eyes unexpectedly sympathetic. "I know the pressure you're under. Though talk about living life on the edge. If _he_ found out about Granger . . . " His voice trailed off.

"It's just physical," Draco insisted, trying to sound convincing. "You know how I get about other people touching my things."

"Yeah, you can be a possessive bastard," Zabini agreed, apparently convinced. Until he smirked and spoke again.

"Drake, how 'bout we renegotiate the terms of our little bet? Three hundred Galleons to me, and I'll pretend to pant after Lav-Lav as long as you'd like me to," Blaise suggested with a wink. "That will keep the Weasel King on his toes and leave you an open field to play with a certain curly-haired witch. And, as always, you can count on my discretion in every respect."

Draco smirked back, not entirely amused at how quickly his cunning friend had perceived his underlying motives in offering the original bet. Draco didn't like to be transparent. Still, an additional hundred Galleons to purchase Zabini's silence regarding Granger was a bargain, particularly since it was a secret that could potentially cost him his life.

(x) (x) (x)

The following week, Draco found himself in the Hogwarts library, wishing, as per usual, that Harry Potter would just _go away_. However, the Boy Who Lived to Annoy kept nattering on in Granger's ear, preventing Draco from approaching her.

It wasn't their usual tutoring night, but he still wanted to see her. With only a couple of days left until the holiday break, exams were over, essays had all been handed in, and the library was nearly deserted as a result. There were only a few students scattered around the cavernous space, most of those nerdy Ravenclaws with their noses firmly embedded in a book, so Draco could enjoy an undisturbed conversation with Granger, maybe even draw her back into the stacks for a quick snog.

Quite simply, Draco wanted to steal as much time as possible with her before he had to head home to the Manor for what promised to be a white-knuckled, bollocks-shriveling couple of weeks. The only impediment to Draco's plan was that Scarhead wouldn't _go away. _Worse yet, from Draco could make out of the whispered conversation between the two Gryffindors, he kept trying to play peacemaker between Granger and the ginger pauper.

"He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes," she told Potter in a prim tone. "I really couldn't care less."

Draco liked the first sentence, because the logical corollary was that Granger, too, was at perfect liberty to kiss whomever she liked - namely, himself. He wished the second sentence were true, but knew it wasn't. If she truly didn't care about Weaselbee and Brown, she wouldn't be seeking refuge in the library to avoid them. And she wouldn't be seeking distraction with him in his arms, as much as Draco hated to admit it.

"And incidentally, you need to be careful," Granger cautioned. Listening from the next aisle over, Draco tensed, wondering if he had somehow given himself away. She was too clever by half and he had been rather unguarded around her in recent weeks.

" . . . but I've learned more from the Half-Blood Prince than . . . ," Potter protested.

Draco's ears perked up at the intelligence that some unknown wizard was teaching Potter and Granger objected. His master would be very interested. Perhaps this tidbit would be enough to satisfy him, or at least keep the Dark Lord from torturing him or, even worse, his mum. However, the four-eyed git's voice annoyingly faded to an indistinct mumble. Hadn't anyone ever taught Pothead to enunciate?

"I'm not talking about your stupid so-called Prince," Granger said clearly. Draco puzzled over who she could be referring to. With the exception of the Dark Lord, wizards generally didn't adopt noble or royal titles, and it would take a brave or foolish wizard indeed to select a rank higher than that of Lord Voldemort.

Now Granger was warning Potty to watch out for Romilda Vane, who was apparently plotting to dose him with a love potion to get an invite to the Slug Club party tomorrow night. Draco suppressed a snicker at the thought of Scarhead panting after that minger, and wondered if he could somehow persuade Millie Bulstrode to jump on the Potter bandwagon. Or just jump Potter - it was all the same to him.

Sluggy's Christmas party was a sore point. In addition to having to warn Zabini away from Granger, Draco had been pestered by any number of Slytherin slags to go as their escort. He'd turned down both Carrow twins and both Greengrass sisters, despite their impeccable bloodlines and passable good looks. If he couldn't go with the witch of his choice - and wouldn't that just set the Kneazle among the pigeons, if he showed up with Granger on his arm! - then he would put the night to good use, working on the Merlin-damned Vanishing Cabinet while everyone else was making merry with Professor Slughorn. And he didn't even want to think about Granger going with some other wizard.

"So why couldn't Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school?" Draco's attention snapped back to the conversation as Potter mentioned his name.

"Oh, Harry . . . not that again . . . " Granger sounded exasperated. Draco would bet his Nimbus she was rolling her eyes at the Chosen Git.

"Come on, why not?" Potty whined.

Draco rolled his own eyes and wished he could tell Potter exactly why not: unlike the Clueless One, he was far too intelligent to risk being caught in the possession of a cursed magical object. That was what underlings, minions, accomplices (even if they had to be Imperiused), and dupes were for.

"But something that's just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn't register - "

That was so unbelievably brilliant - even for Granger - that Draco could have kissed her. In fact, he _would_ kiss her, if her wanker of a best friend ever removed his spectacled arse from the vicinity.

In the meantime, he reviewed his next steps. Madam Rosmerta delivered a quite shocking number of bottles and casks to the professors on a regular basis. Presumably, a holiday shipment would be coming to the castle from the Three Broomsticks any day now. Draco would contact Rosmerta by their linked Galleons - another Granger special - and make sure that Dumbledore's beverage of choice had some extra kick to it. With any luck, the old man would drink the poison over the holidays, when Draco was safely back in Wiltshire. Or as safe as he could be, with the Dark Lord under the same roof.

Draco froze as Madam Pince swooped down on Granger and Potter, announcing the library was closed. When she launched into a hissed diatribe at Potty's treatment of his textbook, he took advantage of the distraction to slink off in the opposite direction, undetected.

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione wasn't quite sure how she had gotten here, astride Malfoy's lap with her pink party dress unzipped and shoved down around her waist, reviewing the incantations and wand motions for contraceptive charms in the tiny portion of her mind that still was capable of rational thought. Most of her brain was too preoccupied with how good Malfoy's hands and mouth were making her feel.

Well, she knew how she'd gotten _here_, if one were referring to this particular dusty old classroom. She had extricated herself from Cormac McLaggen when he tried to pull her under the mistletoe for only the fourth time and then sneaked away from Professor Slughorn's party, wanting nothing more than to make her way to her comfortable four-poster bed in Gryffindor tower.

Just before the marble staircase, Malfoy had softly called her name from inside a darkened classroom. She had seen him gatecrash the Slug Club soirée from across the room, but they didn't dare approach each other in such a public setting. Still, Hermione had been conscious of his mocking grey stare and matching smirk at her efforts to avoid McLaggen's tentacle-like arms. She had returned that smirk, with interest, when Professor Snape accosted Malfoy and dragged him away by the ear, metaphorically speaking.

Once inside the classroom, away from prying eyes, Hermione was able to take a closer look at Malfoy and was alarmed by what she saw. He was even paler than usual, creating a stark contrast to the dark shadows under his eyes.

"Malfoy, are you doing all right?" she had asked.

"Much better, now that you're here," he had breathed against her hair, pulling her close.

It was a charming, evasive non-answer, and Hermione hadn't been fooled. She had drawn away, giving him a searching look with a stubborn set to her jaw. "You don't have to put on a front for me when we're alone, you know. Is it your mum? Or your father?"

He had stiffened, and she had been certain he wouldn't answer, or maybe even would lash out at her like the old Malfoy. She knew he worried about his mother, but he never mentioned his father, mouldering in Azkaban. Then he had slumped against her, burying his face between her neck and shoulder.

"It's going to be a hard Christmas. I'm dreading going home, but my mum needs me," he mumbled against her neck.

The raw emotion in his voice made her want to cry. "I'm sorry," she offered inadequately, stroking his baby-fine hair.

Malfoy raised his eyes to meet hers, apparently gauging her sincerity and his response. "You're very sweet," he said, almost regretfully. Then his familiar, cocky smirk was back in place. "Perhaps you can kiss it better?" he inquired insouciantly, sitting on the professor's chair and pulling her onto his lap.

She had done her best, kissing him with an intensity that had them both gasping and grasping for more. When his grey eyes had met hers in a wordless request, with his hand on her zip, Hermione had nodded her consent. She had done the same minutes later when he went to unclasp her bra. This was uncharted territory for them: her blouse may have gotten unbuttoned during their prior fooling around, and her bra might have been moved aside, but both garments always had stayed on.

After an appreciative perusal, long enough that Hermione's blush had time to travel from her cheeks to tops of her now-exposed breasts, Malfoy wrapped one hand around the back of her neck and resumed kissing her, with Hermione relishing the sensation of their bare chests rubbing together. She was surprised when he wrenched his lips away from hers. She, not Malfoy, was always the one to call a halt to their non-academic activities. But he wasn't asking her to stop.

"I want you to mark me," he requested in a hoarse voice.

Hermione took in his tousled platinum hair, reddened lips, and the slightly glazed, almost desperate, expression in his eyes. "Please," he added. "I want _you_ to mark me," he repeated.

This also was uncharted territory. They were so careful when they met to not create any evidence that they were studying subjects far more interesting that Arithmancy. If she had ever returned from their tutoring sessions the slightest bit disheveled, Harry and Ron would commit bloody murder. She wasn't sure what consequences, if any, Malfoy would face in the Slytherin dungeons.

As requested, she lowered her mouth to his neck, sucking softly and nipping at the pulse point just above where his collar would be if she hadn't shoved his Oxford shirt down his shoulders. From the moans he was emitting and the way his hands tightened, one on her breast and the other gripping her thigh, the blond wizard was intensely enjoying what she was doing to him.

Hermione knew Malfoy wouldn't stop unless she told him to. As his hand traveled up her thigh, pushing up her skirt, she realized she wasn't at all inclined to tell him so.

In part - a very petty part - she was goaded on by Lavender's giggling comment to Parvati that she needed to stock up on Contraceptive Potion over the Christmas holidays, now that she and Won-won were "doing it." Hermione knew that tit for tat with Ronald Weasley was an exceedingly poor reason to give up her virginity to Draco Malfoy, but the other reasons tumbling through her head were harder to refute in her current aroused state.

What he was doing felt _so _good, and she knew instinctively it would feel even better if she allowed him to continue. And Malfoy made her feel good in a different, more important sense. It was heady flattery to know that one of the most attractive boys at Hogwarts wanted her, and didn't just see her as a walking encyclopedia or someone to be made fun of in Transfiguration class. She was sick and tired of being always taken for granted. Malfoy, for all that she was tutoring him, never expected her to do his homework and always, always thanked her. Just now, he was showing his gratitude in an especially delightful way, one that made her gasp and then reciprocate by shimmying against the hard bulge in his trousers.

Seeking to anchor herself, physically and mentally, Hermione ran her hands down Malfoy's arms. Early on, she had unbuttoned his shirt in order to press herself against his hard, lean chest. She hadn't yet tackled the cufflinks, so the expensive Egyptian cotton was still bunched around his forearms. Under her hands, she felt warm skin, wiry muscle; and soft hair that she knew was an almost translucent light blond. It felt _right_ touching Malfoy like this, using him as support while her body hummed in pleasure from the sensation of his teasing mouth alternating between her nipples.

Her right hand moved lower, and the very edge of her palm brushed against something _wrong_. It made her want to jerk her hand away as though from a hot stove, even though it felt cool, like snakeskin. Through sheer force of will, Hermione kept herself from flinching away. Instead, she lightly brushed the heel of her hand over the same spot. Once again, she felt the same odd texture and instinctive revulsion.

Malfoy was too busy with her breasts to have noticed her reaction, thank Godric, but he noticed the tension in her body as she loosely wrapped her arms around his waist, trying to buy herself a moment to think. "Am I going too fast? Do you want me to stop?" he asked.

Hermione nibbled on her lips. The safest thing would be to call a halt, to go and tell a teacher there was something inimical on Malfoy's left forearm, but she didn't yet know if it was the Dark Mark. It could be a harmless scar; it could even be that her imagination had bought into Harry's "Malfoy is a Death Eater" theory.

"Would you take off your shirt?" she asked nervously. She had to see for herself, to find out if he really had taken the Mark.

Malfoy arched a blond eyebrow. "I might, if you would take off your dress."

She had expected an outright refusal, rather than Slytherin bargaining. Malfoy's proposal that she strip down to her knickers certainly upped the ante. It also would leave her very vulnerable indeed if he were a junior Death Eater, since her wand was in a concealed pocket in her dress. Malfoy was clever enough that he could be gambling she would never agree. If so, she was calling his bluff.

"Okay," she agreed nervously, slipping off his lap.

"Ladies first," he stated, steely grey eyes fixed on her face.

With a jerky nod, Hermione slid the silky material down her legs and stepped out of her crumpled dress. She wasn't wearing stockings, just a lacy pair of knickers, and could feel her cheeks getting hot at the realization of just how much Malfoy could see.

A strangled sound made her glance up from the floor, to discover Malfoy was no longer looking at her face. Instead, his eyes were running up and down her body. "You are beautiful," he breathed. The obvious sincerity from a boy who had once derided her as filthy made her toes curl with pleasure.

"Your turn," she stated. He fumbled with his cufflinks, refusing to tear his eyes away from her. Hermione had never seen his eyes look so dark, the silvery grey turned stormy with desire. Malfoy summarily stripped off his shirt and flung it somewhere in the classroom. Hermione drank in the sight of a shirtless Draco Malfoy, offering up a silent thanks to Morgana and Nimue that his left arm was as pale and perfect as the rest of him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded nervously, as his hands dropped to his belt.

"Don't worry, princess," Malfoy reassured her with a smirk. "I'll keep my shorts on until you tell me otherwise. But we'll both be more comfortable this way." As he spoke, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, shoving them low on his hips and allowing his erection to partially spring free, above the waistband of his boxers.

Hermione settled herself once again on his lap, giving herself over to his honeyed tongue and roving hands, enjoying the sensation of the head of his cock pressed firmly up against her knickers and very slightly inside her as she rocked against him, allowing a teasing preview for both of them how full penetration would feel. It was lovely for a few minutes, until Malfoy reached his left hand down to stroke her bottom. Then she felt it again, that cold, slimy wrongness brushing against the small of her back. This time, she couldn't repress her instinctive reaction, as her body flinched and tensed.

"Too much, Her- Granger? We can stop if you wish," Malfoy murmured against her lips.

Hermione thought quickly. She had read up on the Dark Mark earlier in the year, hoping to disprove Harry's conviction that Malfoy was a Death Eater. Nothing she had read suggested the Mark could be covered by a Glamour. Typically, dark magic like that couldn't be concealed, at least by a standard charm, but Malfoy was a skilled wizard. She couldn't just ignore that there was something that felt off on his inner left forearm, precisely where Voldemort branded his followers. Whatever it took, she was going to find out what Malfoy was concealing.

"I think perhaps it's best if I get off your lap," Hermione said, putting word into deed as she stood up.

A flash of pure disappointment crossed his face. "As you wish, princess. I take it we're done for the evening?"

She stepped closer to the chair, where he was still seated, and ran a hand through his hair. "What will you do after I leave?" she inquired, hoping the query came out as flirtatious rather than interrogatory.

Malfoy jerked in surprise and gave her a very odd look. Hermione ruefully decided she was utter rubbish at being a sex kitten. "About this, I mean?" she clarified, gesturing at the very erect penis poking up from his trousers.

He smirked up at her, eyes dark and hooded with lust. "I'll wank myself off while fantasizing about you, Granger. What else would I do?"

She ignored his question, because she could think of any number of unsavory things he might be doing if there were a Dark Mark on his arm. Instead, she responded with a question of her own. "Would you let me do that for you?"

"Oh, fuck, yeah!" Malfoy assented with randy enthusiasm. "If you're sure," he added hastily.

Hermione wasn't at all sure this was a good plan, but she was going to carry it through. But not kneeling between Malfoy's legs like a good little Muggleborn pet. To cover her discomfort, she Transfigured Malfoy's robes, discarded before she had arrived in the classroom, into a mattress covered with black satin sheets.

With cat-like grace, Malfoy lay down on the makeshift mattress. "Nice work, Granger," he complimented. "Very comfortable."

She smiled weakly, settling herself next to him. During their study sessions, Hermione had noticed that when Malfoy relaxed, he put his arms behind his head. He did so now, leaving his inner forearms exposed, just as she had hoped.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged down his shorts. With Malfoy intently watching her, Hermione reached out and stroked with tentative fingers.

"You've never done this before, have you?" he asked. Hermione flushed and felt _him_ twitch under her hand.

"Granger," he said, reaching out to touch her wrist. "Relax. It's not an exam," he grinned at her. "I'm going to enjoy whatever you do. I promise, my cock isn't breakable."

"Okay, Malfoy," she acknowledged, continuing with the experimental touches as his eyes fluttered shut. _This_ made him smile, _that_ made him moan, and _that_ made him invoke Salazar's snake. The entire time, her eyes were fixed on his left arm as she silently recited revealing charms with no result.

"_Oleguenti tepidus_," he muttered softly. "Try it. Same wand motion as _aguamenti_, but second swish is to the left."

The application of warm lotion made him groan with pleasure. Hermione kept her wand in her left hand, since non-verbal spells were almost impossible without a wand. Her right hand continued to work mechanically, with Malfoy now writhing in pleasure as she figured out the best combination of pressure and pace.

"Please don't stop, Granger," he begged. "It feels so good."

She carried on, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Please, Hermione! I'm getting close," he advised.

So was she, with a telling dark blur now visible to her on his left arm.

She broke through and had her first clear glimpse of the leering skull with a snake slithering through the empty eye sockets just as Malfoy jerked and shuddered under her hand, spending himself on his stomach as she stared in horror at the Mark convulsing under the skin of his forearm. In revulsion, she let go of him, wiping her hand on the Transfigured sheet. She willed herself to maintain the same blank face she employed whenever Ron flaunted Lavender in front of her.

"Thank you," Malfoy said with utmost sincerity, grey eyes warm with affection as he came down from his peak. "That was fucking _brilliant_."

On autopilot, she made some sound in acknowledgment as she Scourgified her hands and his body with a quick wave of her wand.

"It tickles!" he laughingly complained, rolling to his side to escape. The temptation to hit him with something far more serious than a _Scourgify_ was almost overwhelming, but Hermione could not bring herself to attack when he was so defenseless.

After a moment, he rolled back in her direction. Malfoy had a tiny smile curving his lips and looked happier than Hermione had seen him in weeks. Utterly satisfied, utterly satiated, and not even bothering to pull up his trousers to cover his softening cock. It was the first one she had ever seen outside of a book, but Hermione was fairly certain he had nothing to be ashamed of in that department.

The true shame was the despicable Dark Mark branded into his left arm, hidden - but not carefully enough - by a glamour charm. Now that she had revealed it, she couldn't stop seeing it. Briefly, she wondered if Malfoy Glamoured the Mark because he _was _ashamed, or just out of caution, to avoid getting caught.

Honestly, she decided, it didn't matter. He was one of Voldemort's soldiers for life, regardless of any second thoughts, dedicated to extermination of her kind. She knew now that they now stood on opposite sides of an irrevocable divide.

"Give me a minute and I'll return the favor," Malfoy offered in a languid voice, reclining on the Transfigured mattress.

The sheer teenage normality of it made her want to cry. The boy she was fooling around with wanted to touch her, to make her feel good, when he wasn't occupied committing Godric only knew what crimes for his genocidal master.

"Erm, no, that's okay, Malfoy," Hermione babbled, reaching around to zip up her dress. "Happy Christmas," she added lamely, before racing from the room.

She hoped she looked presentable. Despite the lateness of the hour, she had to wake Professor McGonagall, to warn her that there was a Death Eater in the castle.

**A/N: The dialogue between Harry and Hermione in the library is verbatim from HBP. **


End file.
